


De Humani Corporis Fabrica

by murakistags



Series: Hannibal Cre-Ate-Ive Prompts [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: #WetFromTheShower, Canon Gay Relationship, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Hand Jobs, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03, WetFromTheShower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 13:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7362970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murakistags/pseuds/murakistags
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“For how many years will you hold hostage my favorite shirt, Will?”</p><p>-</p><p>Will has a minor habit of wearing Hannibal's dress shirts from time to time. They smell like Hannibal, they're slightly bigger, they're soft and comfortable…and they sometimes look so good on him, apparently, that it leads to a bit of fun.</p><p>Written for the Hannibal Cre-Ate-Ive's #WetFromTheShower prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	De Humani Corporis Fabrica

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't seen the recent pictures of Hugh Dancy that inspired this #WetFromTheShower prompt, you are absolutely missing out. You'd better head on over to the Hannibal Cre-Ate-Ive's Twitter (@hannibalcreativ) and give them a look. Just…wow.
> 
> Mistakes are my own, and I apologize for them. This has not been beta-read.
> 
> Bon appétit.

It was just something that Will had picked up doing out of habit.

At first, though, to slip one of Hannibal's expensive dress shirts onto his body was purely out of necessity. As winter winds approached into the air, Will swore that he could still feel the ocean's chill sweeping up in unforgiving droves astride the cliffside home. The frigid feeling rocked him so to the core that he couldn't possibly remain without a shirt, though Will hardly minded otherwise. Hannibal was barely conscious, and being half-clothed in the doctor's presence is something to which Will, on some level of subconsciousness, had never really paid much attention. After all, there are black patches in his mind from Muskrat Farm, his own home, Florence… He'd gone down into darkness, and awoken into Hannibal's unique brand of care, including freshly-changed clothes and all. Will also realizes that on some level it really should bother him, but it doesn't. Not nearly as much as it truly should. But he doesn't think about that.

In any case, those first few days following the fall were a disaster for a torn shoulder and cheek, and a bullet-pierced flank. Hannibal could remain wrapped taut with bandages and shirtless beneath blankets, but Will was hardly of any need to lay around all day. In fact, he couldn't stand to stay still for so very long, and so he'd have to clothe completely.

Tucked away in a back room at that house on the cliff, was an armoire of beautifully stained oak, with heavy doors and golden-handle adornments. Why Will Graham found clothing _exactly_ his very size of clothing within that armoire in a house he'd never previously visited, well… _that_ was mildly alarming. For all of two seconds. Never put anything past Hannibal Lecter, he'd learned over the years, with so many scars and memories to help solidify it.

The only problem with the clothing exactly his size is that with wound-swollen shoulder and little patience at all to deal with the constantly throbbing mess of mangled flesh there, Will found himself at a great impasse with that armoire. He'd stolen the sized slacks from there, and duly noted that not only were they far, far of better and more expensive quality than he himself would ever purchase (or afford), but they also all fit just perfectly as if tailored exactly to his specifications. The slacks were fine, fitting, comfortable in spite of how upper-class they looked.

The shirt, however, had come from a different closet entirely. The ivory-colored tag upon the inner collar was emblazoned with initials "H.L." and the threads smelled of a strangely exotic musk, reminiscent of fresh detergent, crisp aftershave, and expensive European cologne. The empath had tucked his face into the cloth of white and very light pin-stripes of blue that he held in his hands, inhaling deeply and finding a comfort in the softness and familiarity. Will found then that Hannibal, being more broad-shouldered than he, and near-beastly with the amount of power held in his thick muscles and body, wears one size larger. One size larger, but still tailored to perfection, of course. The long-sleeved dress shirt fit Will's condensed body just perfectly without issue. The larger torso and wider sleeves were absolutely relieving, able to be slipped onto his body without wrenching his recovering shoulder into a position of pain and hurt again.

Will had noted at the time that perhaps the reason Hannibal Lecter wears those brilliant three-piece suits so often is not _only_ because the doctor is of peculiarly refined tastes, but also because the feeling of fine, rich fabrics on the skin is actually quite a nice experience. He's loathe to admit it aloud, though, not one to actively stroke Hannibal's insatiable ego in those few long days of languid recovery following a dangerous duel with the Dragon, and thereafter a daring dance in the icy seas.

He figured that if Hannibal commented on the sight of the ex-agent wearing the doctor's shirts, it would be a simple explanation that he needed the larger size to accommodate that heavily-bandaged shoulder of his. But Hannibal hadn't commented at all, not even when Will rolled up the sleeves to his elbows, left the upper buttons open, and had leaned down over the other man to help check at the bandages and adjust the sheets. No comment at that moment meant that one would eventually come at a later date, at the most unexpected moment. Hannibal is too meticulous to not realize and not comment and just forget about it entirely, Will thinks. Will _knows_.

But long years had passed from that time beside the sea, the mystical blood of the slain Dragon like a red carpet to line their departure from that home, from the United States, together.

Now half a decade later finds them comfortably tucked into a suburb of Andalusia, Spain, where Hannibal flourishes in all the golden tones of beautiful architecture and culture, and Will dreams in the gorgeous rolling hills and forests that stretch for miles, lush and rich with life. They both enjoy exploring the language together– _juntos_ – too, and even using it when engaging the rude…also together. All in all, the life is domestic and quiet, and they even have a little snow-white samoyed pup (much to Hannibal's subtly acrimonious objection, but eventual agreement on the basis of how _happy_ it would make Will) to accompany them in this new life. It's been full of compromise, but much more of all else. To say that both men are content with this life, with one another, would not be fictitious. Not in the slightest.

…To say that Will isn't content with still, years later, occasionally stealing Hannibal's shirts to wear around the house, would also be fictitious. Hannibal never really did comment since that day, and Will absently wonders if there's a statute of limitations for the doctor on these sort of things. Wouldn't that be something.

This early morning is quiet as it most often is. A brief breakfast later, the two men have split to opposite corners of the house to comfortably spend time. The little pup Charlie napping away in the first rays of rising sun on the open porch has left the morning solitude excessively quiet, left the empath to wonder how to spend the next few hours. Maybe a trek out into the woods…but is Will readily willing to brave the mucky thunderstorm they'd promised for today on the morning forecast? He isn't. Not in the mood, not today. Instead, he finds himself taking a hot shower, the water so smooth and steamy that it leaves his tan skin with a refreshed glow, his curly locks silky-soft as they dry in an unruly mess atop his head. Though Will has his glasses thereafter soon perched on the bridge of his nose to read as his hair air-dries, his leather-bound joint-volume copy of Vesalius' _De humani corporis fabrica_ – a generously beautiful gift from Hannibal on Will's last birthday– sits forgotten atop a decorative wood and glass table in the foyer.

Bare-footed on the sandstone porch, Will raises a steaming hot coffee cup to his lips instead, and takes a hearty sip. His blue gaze is reflecting the honeyed tones of morning sun, and the luscious green of forest and dirt path beyond the front of their home. He's effectively distracted for a moment, but not enough that he can't feel Hannibal suddenly creeping up behind him, just in time to preemptively swallow the milky bitterness, and not choke on it in surprise instead. It's an art all his own, Will thinks, to be able to finally have some sort of grip on sensing the doctor's approach. (Hannibal still scares the skin off of Will at times when he speaks without warning, creeps into the room, or spontaneously appears in doorways, but Will would rather not talk about how embarrassing it is.)

Moving the rim of cup from his lips pink with heat, the empath allows firm arms to encompass him from behind. Against his back is that familiar warmth, the doctor lithely pressing all of his front against his companion's back. For someone who previously had issues with being touched and prodded so casually, Will sure as hell always had no qualms about Hannibal being the one person allowed to break that mold, without regret.

Hannibal's chin rests lightly down against the very shoulder healed and scarred by a becoming. Arms link and tighten in the embrace, warm and comforting in its own way. The movement slightly ruffles the blue-white fabric of dress shirt on Will's body, hanging open and unbuttoned. Hannibal admires it all more closely as curly wet locks tickle the side of his face, and fill his nostrils with the scent of designer lavender soaps. Peering down over the empath's shoulders affords the older man a delicious view of wet shirt sticking to warm tan skin, pert nipples against moist fabric, a crooked line of scar across lower belly, and a white bath towel wrapped and hanging perilously low on those hips. It's a sight the doctor wholly believes too sinful for words, and so instead of waxing poetic or allowing his mind to get the better of him and send blood pooling in his lower pelvis, Hannibal opts to just lean in closer and whisper softly, beside Will's right ear in that intimate moment.

“For how many years will you hold hostage my favorite shirt, Will?”

“You have favorite clothing? Never would've guessed.”

“It is my favorite only insofar that you are wearing it.”

“…Oh.”

No statute of limitations after all, it seems.

Will then has fight down the tingle of heat rising to scraggly-haired cheeks and jaw, but as valiant as his effort is, it is in vain. _Damn Hannibal Lecter for remembering. Damn him for being so smooth in embracing this moment. Damn him for being so skilled at effortlessly working his way to the reward of a rosy blush, in return for his husky, accented voice whispering a thinly-veiled compliment._

Suddenly the half-filled coffee cup in Will's hands feels heavier than before, and he wishes to put it down so that he can wrap his own arms around those that embrace him from behind. Instead, his fingers cinch tightly into the glazed ceramic cup, turning his knuckles visibly white with restraint. Will did not even realize that he needed restraint…that is, until Hannibal's head had tilted closer, a pair of lips had left a kiss at the side of his neck, and hands on the bare skin of his sides have begun to stroke gently.

“Do you remember, Will?”

That accent is all the more thick with desire just seconds later, and Hannibal too is surprised just how quickly he's allowed his patience to drop away. The empath has a knack for making him horribly wanton, ravenous like the beast in sheep's clothing he is. Now that Will is wearing the clothing of the beast, what does that make this?

“Remember what?”

It makes it painfully arousing, really. It would be enough that Will is wearing nothing but an loose-fitting open shirt on shoulders and a towel around hips, but Will Graham is positively a siren. Hannibal can swear to that. The shirt is not just any shirt– it is _Hannibal's_. And it is _wet_ , clinging to skin in a matter so lustful that even Will's tan nipples have naturally pebbled in response.

“The third morning after the death of the Dragon.”

Hannibal's voice seems to echo in his ears, make him dizzy with desire. But Will clings to that coffee cup still, unwilling to be overwhelmed and let it shatter to the porch floor and make a mess. He doesn't believe Hannibal would be upset, no– it would only fuel his amusement and desire, knowing just how easily he has affected his cunning boy. Drawing in a deep breath, thick lashes fluttering his eyes closed, Will attempts to keep his voice as steady as possible with his breathless whisper of response.

“…Y-Yes?”

Hannibal keeps time and distance between responses and reaction, inhaling very deeply with nostrils flared with delicate scent of a freshly-bathed empath, the morning dew in the wilderness around them, the depth of earthy soil, and the rich notes of brewed coffee above it all. Languidly slow, the doctor bares sharp teeth against column of Will's neck, just enough to tease the skin with pearly color and firmness, but not enough to bite or draw blood. This is a moment meant to be thoroughly savored.

“You wore this very shirt.”

The very moment in which one of Hannibal's deft hands unravels the towel from Will's waist, in the very second in which all of the breath leaves the younger man in a loud rush of air. It's like a relief, but also a painful tease, the plush towel dragging painfully against a hardening length on the way down to pool at his feet, forgotten. Harder, harder still, Will grips to that coffee cup and parts his lips to breathe heavier, the orange sunlight dancing on his half-wet skin and hair as his head reclines back to Hannibal's shoulder.

“ _Yes_...”

The word is not only in agreement with Hannibal's voiced recollection regarding the very first time Will had consciously chosen to wear one of his shirts, no. But it is also in agreement with the fact that a large, firm hand wraps around his length, and gives a lavish and slow stroke, from base to tip where a pad of thumb soon teases a moistening slit.

“How naughty, Will. Wearing my clothing instead of your own…”

Will feels so impossibly aroused in that moment, length hard and throbbing so hotly, that he swears the ceramic mug in his hands will shatter at any moment under the pressure he uses to hold it upright still. It'll shatter and leave sharp shards jutting into his skin, pain ripping through his nerves and _holy fuck Hannibal feels so good_. It's driving Will insane as he writhes and wriggles just then, unable to help the strangled noise that leaves his throat. Purely at the doctor's mercy, Will bucks his hips forward to try and relieve the tension coiled in his stomach, to find relief in friction. But Hannibal's one arm still around his midsection is like a vice grip, strong and unyielding…which Will really can't protest, because his legs are genuinely beginning to feel like jello, and the doctor's firm grip is quite possibly the only thing keeping the empath from crumbling down to the porch floor.

“You look lovely like this, my cunning boy.”

Watching that very cunning boy writhe and grind for more, moan and whimper with head tilted back to his shoulder, only spurs on Hannibal all the more. His large hand squeezes and pumps Will's cock in his hand, the movement of tilting wrist relentless and so painfully skilled, perfect. Like most things in his life, Hannibal doesn't do this halfway. Most especially because the smell of Will in his nose, the sight and sound of the man in his arms, pressing back against him…it's all so beautiful.

Within mere minutes, the warm coffee in cup is sloshing dangerously to the rim, rocking like an ocean in Will's very hands. Rough as the sea is, it is a testament to how hard he orgasms far quicker than he had anticipated. The release hits him fiercely and suddenly, like a crisp slap across the face. As Will trembles and tenses, moans out loudly and releases his hot spurts of sticky white across belly and into Hannibal's relentless palm, a small noise of approval is hummed into Will's neck. Hannibal too is hard in the confines of his pants and longing for release, but is very much content to merely offer pleasure to Will in this moment. The empath is simply too irresistible, like this. Milking the moment for what it's worth, Hannibal eventually releases the younger male, but not without bringing a sticky hand up to taste clean, and not without deftly plucking that trembling coffee cup from unsteady hands which quiver with lingering whispers of lust in those veins.

The smell of sex joins that of fresh soap and coffee in the air, and it's a lovely morning indeed.

As Will bends forward with quiet pants and a flushed neck and face to hastily pick up his towel from the stone porch floor, the soft fabric of Hannibal's dress shirt fluttering against his skin…he makes a mental note to perhaps wear them more often. Hannibal certainly doesn't seem to mind it.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it, don't forget to leave kudos and comments. They inspire me and make me smile.
> 
> Please consider [buying me a coffee for a fic](https://ko-fi.com/murakistags)!


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